Why Blog When You Have Nothing to Say?: A Tortuous 6.22 Mile Run With the Voat Fat People Hate Verified Sh!tlady

“Botendaddy, allow me to speak.” Said the VFPHVSL.


  • Backboobs, Backcleavage, Beetus,
  • Beetus-Juice, CI-CO, Condishuns,
  • FA, Fathate, Fatlogic,
  • Fattit, Feddit, HAES
  • Hamdelusional, Hamgur, McBeetus,
  • Obesity Paradox, Reee! Reee!, Scooty-puff,
  • Shitlady, Shitlord, Shitlording,
  • SJW, Thermodynamics, Triggered,
  • Tubblr, Whalemart, Beetus-eater,
  • Beluga, Blackholeham, Butterbeast,
  • Buttergolem, Butter Huffer, Butterham,
  • Chairbreaker, Caloriedumpster, Co-Porker,
  • Criscodemon, Deathfat, Eatbeast,
  • Fatty, Fatass, Fupacabra,
  • Eye-pollution, Fat-to-thin, Fatty,
  • Femayo, Former-fat, Former-humans,
  • Fupa Trupa, Greasehog,
  • Greasegoblin, Ham, Hambeast,
  • Hamily, Hamlord, Hamplanet,
  • Hamsteroid, Eyebleach, Heffalump,
  • Hogbeast, Landwalrus, Landwhale,
  • Lard of the Chins, Lardass, Lardbeast,
  • Lardbucket, Lardbutter, Lardcave,
  • Lardvaark, Mayotanker, Mayogender,
  • Minimoon, Obeast, Pigf*cker,
  • Pooldefecator, Planet, Porker,
  • Skinnyfat, Smallfat, Thin-to-fat,
  • Tub of lard, Tumblerina!…



The Route

Now I feel much better. It’s out of my system.” The VFPHVSL was exhausted, leaning with her hands on her knees.

We were joined by the equally psychotic No-one Cares Lady.

“No-one cares about your stupid Voat Fat-Hate You F*%KING IDIOT! SHUT THE F*&K UP!…

No-one cares about Botendaddy’s death-reeking del.ic.io.us adult diaper.. aah the smell of it! Let’s run, you f&%king morons!”

“By the way, I love our readers, we almost have 5,000 hits! We even got a hit from Russia! It’s awesome! Our readers are the *hottest!*!” I said as we began to run.

I had nothing. We ran up a steep mountain ridge across the country line. We got lost but miraculously found a road that lead back to the start… 2.75 miles from the start, but what are you gonna do.

“You are running like shit today, Botendaddy. Fat affecting your ability to run? Overheating from the steaming, post-apocalyptic diaper?” Asked the VFPHVSL.

“No-one cares about your over-heating.” Said the NCL.

The two girls fought and sniped at each other the entire run. They were right in front of me so I could stare at their lithe, bouncing female buttockses the entire time. It was mesmerizing.

“Are you looking at my ass?” Asked the VFPHVSL?

“Yeah, No-one cares about your sick old man perversions. You wish, you rotting aged freak.” Said the NCL

“What… were you two mouthy broads saying something while I was staring at your sweaty-wet, *hot*, supple, girlie ass-cracques? I didn’t hear a single word either of you said. Why? BECAUSE I’M NOT F&%KING BLIND! I am staring at your asses! Are you f%$king kidding me? COVFEFE! COVFEFE! OH LORDY, LORDY JIM IS FORTY! I WANT TO COVFEFE BOTH OF YOU IN YOUR SWEATY COVFEFES! I HOPE I DIE F&%KING THE BOTH OF YOU! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK I’M LOOKING AT? I’M NOT DEAD!… YET…”

The girls then picked up the pace and disappeared over the horizon.

So, I wouldn’t get any COVFEFE today, but I was finally, blissfully alone.

I staggered into the parking lot.

I went into the darkened condo.

I climbed into the hot-tub, but unfortunately they were both there waiting for me.

“No-one Cares!”


“Mocha Java with Nutmeg?”

Peace be the Botendaddy




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TV Review: ‘I’m Dying up Here’ is dying up there.

By the way, I absolutely hate Star Wars. Ever since the goddamned Ewoks-let’s sell kids Teddy Bears! Moichandizing!

Space-balls is much better. The only characters I liked from Star Wars were Jabba, Chewbacca and Jar-Jar (because everyone else hated him).

Was Boba Fett in any of the series? Who the f&$& was he? I never heard of the mother-f@&$?

Jim Carrey, who I used to think was funny, now strikes me as one of those Lucille Ball types who were supposedly rather humorless off stage and for whom humor is only an act. I have no personal knowledge, it’s just what I read. But at any rate, I liked Ace Ventura and I liked him on Living Colors.

His new show about stand-up comedy is so goddamned boring I feel like Alexander DeLarge being subject to anti-ultra violence therapy with my eyes forcibly held open.

Along with the horrifically over-done social-racial moralizing (because we’re too stupid to get it when it’s subtle) the evil racist straw-man, object-lesson puppeteer… blah blah blah… it’s borderline unwatchable.

Apparently, I missed almost all of Season Three of Fargo. The first episode which (not ‘that’ – I don’t need the goddamned illiterate Microsoft grammar check to rectally rape my correct grammar in its gaping anus) I watched was boring with unappealing characters and an incomprehensible plotline. I am already done, I will not watch episode two.

‘The Great Indoors’, a show about a 40-something dealing with millennials was quite funny, but got cancelled anyway. I guess the super-boring crap is more popular.

Peace be the Botendaddy


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Botendaddy Supports [ ] Artists

The [   ] Writer’s Coalition sub-group of the Writer’s Workshop was in session.

The Caribbean Queen was there representing Jamaica.

The Voat Fat People Hate Verified Sh!tlady was there representing the U.S. Virgin Islands.

Devon was there representing… Beaver County, PA

Revolutionary Blacquéz was there representing… Youngstown, Ohio.

Revolutionary spoke first: “I want to give a shout out to the Devil (*hot*) Botendaddy.”

“Did you just mutter *hot* under your breath?” Asked the CQ with a raised eyebrow.

“Nah, I didn’t, you heard something else (*icky girl*).” Rev’ said shaking his dreadlocks.

“You did it again!” Said the VFPHVSL. “You fat heffalump, Beetus-eater! You lying Lardvaark!”

“I’m 21 BMI!” He protested.

“FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTT!” Shrieked the VFPHVSL. “May Lord Brimley take your corpulent corpse to Fat People Hell!”

“Why are we here? You all only showed up early because Botendaddy brings Donuts (pronounced dough-nutz) and Cofveve, I mean Coffee.” Stated Devon.

“Botendaddy supports [    ] artists.” Said the CQ.

“Why are you censoring the word [    ]?” Asked Devon.

“It’s the vogue, the latest literary device, *hot* like Botendaddy in ‘full’ drag. Ah the smell of it! YES!” Shrieked Rev’ “There I said it! I’m madly in love with him – you… you bitches! So sue me.”


Unrelated Scenic View of Youngstown, Ohio

“Botendaddy supports [    ] artists and producers like:

Prince Dozen: Free my       Bill Cosby

Manu Dibango

Young Blee: Warrior

The Meters: Cissy Strut

The amazing, talented Lisa “Cynical” Smith (formerly of 88hiphop.com)

Do you know what I’m saying? Or has endless years of oppression rendered all of you unable to absorb my vibe?” Said Rev’.

“What the [   ] are you talking about? We haven’t even discussed writing yet.” Wondered Devon.

“Where are the [  ] damn donuts?” Asked the CQ

“Beeeeeetuuuuus”! Shouted the VFPHVSL like she had Tourette’s.

There, at the door, stood the Botendaddy.

“Free weight 94 of the workout year today. Tried lower body.”

“Why don’t we all eat donutz and get n4k3d in Botendaddy’s Penthouse in-ground Jacuzzi?” Asked Rev’

Everyone nodded in agreement.

“Coffee and Donutz?”

Peace be the Botendaddy



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German Expressionist Theatre Presents: A 5.54 Mile Run in Savage Humidity: Botendaddy on Trial for {CENSORED}

[Opens to a stage in a smoke-filled Deutsche film-noir 1920’s style theater.]


Guy Fawkes Mask by Kigsz Wikimedia Commons

NARRATOR: [In Weimar-Era top hat and tails] ‘Obviously in every German Expressionist play is the existential-oppositional-nihilist anarchist-deontological-neo-structuralism between Totalitarian Fascism and Extreme Socialism presented in incomprehensible 1920’s dialectic.’ [bows low, curtain opens]

Botendaddy stands before the tribunal. The Chief Judge is 16 feet above the prisoner in a grey, black and white Film-Noir, 1930’s, Socialist-New-Deal-Art-Deco, Fritz-Lang-Metropolis, Twilight-Zone-Imagined-Fascist Courtroom.


Hoxter Portrait – work of Meidner

Everyone is wearing gray National Socialist-style uniforms.

The judge is hidden behind blinding arc-lights.

The audience/chorus is on either side of the prisoner in the dark and they chant and repeat accusatory words of the judge.

JUDGE: ‘Yon so-called Botendaddy, you are on trial under the University Code of Social Correct Behavior for the crimes of {CENSORED PA DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE pursuant to Public Law no 36.1 of 1937 Pa. Cons. Stat. No 8,032,236,909 of 1936, by per curiam order of the Court of Quarter Sessions of 31 October 1938 for excessive prurient behavior.} committed against every single member of the Writer’s Workshop. Your depravity is a threat to the State!’

BOTENDADDY: ‘Your Honor.’

JUDGE: How do you plead for your crimes against the security of the state?

CHORUS: ‘Serve the state! Serve the state! Serve the state!

Botendaddy lapses into a Burgess Meredith voice.

BOTENDADDY: ‘Your honor… I am but a simple scientist.’

LIBRARIAN: ‘I’m a Librarian’

BOTENDADDY: ‘Hey! Shut up Librarian! This is my f&%$ing episode, damnit!’


[The judge shrieks like a Valkyrie (pronounced While-Kye-Rhee), standing and gesturing wildly like the glorious Fuehrer.]

CHORUS: ‘Sterilize! Sterilize!’

JUDGE: ‘You fornicated, drooled on and contaminated every single member of the Writer’s workshop, even the male and elderly in every possible orifice in every conceivable position with your sticky, slimy, del.ici.io.us precious bodily fluids! Ah the smell of it! Confess!’

CHORUS: ‘Confess! Confess!’

The prisoner, Botendaddy, stands, arms at his sides, looking up at the judge.  Faceless security force members stand guard on either side of the prisoner, each of whom wear identical ‘Und Du?’ 1920’s propaganda-poster-style helmets.

BOTENDADDY: ‘Your honor… I may have possibly enticed some or all members of the Writer’s Workshop with Espresso, Latte, Coffee, Covfefe, but I did what I did in the name of that most basic human urge of the industrial, heraldic, machine-aged-styled-new-deal-cast-bronze-epic-socialist-art-worker, the desire for freedom! Freedom from want, freedom from fear, freedom from hunger, yea, freedom of expression…’

CHORUS: ‘Bullshit! Bullshit!’

BOTENDADDY: ‘OK, I lied, I f%$ked them. I f%$ked every last one of them in every way imaginable. And I spanked them, humiliated them, left them dirty, sticky and shamed. Ah del.ic.io.us! AND THEY LOVED IT! There are you happy now? I f%$ked them… Ah the taste of it!’

JUDGE: ‘So you confess to all charges! TRAITOR!’

CHORUS: ‘Cleanse the impurity!’

JUDGE: ‘I sentence you to… to… keep running!… in HUMIDITY!’

BOTENDADDY: ‘Noooooo!’ ‘

[The prisoner is led away by security to the chants of the chorus.]


NARRATOR: ‘My dearest audience, I thank you, for your attendance. This was a presentation of Brechtian-Kaiser-Kirchner-Paula-Modersöhn-Becker Deutsche Ausdrückkunst Théatre (pronounced Tay-ott-tchray)’.

[Actors appears in a line on the stage bowing low to raucous, extended applause.]

And so, my dear readers and only friends, I found myself alone on the desolate trail. It was 79 degrees, but 80% humidity and I ran a ten minute first mile, then by the second mile, twenty-two minutes. But was I ever really alone?

‘You’re a f*&$ing idiot.’ Said the Caribbean Queen as we ran in Indian (pronounced Revolutionary Oppressed Native American) file on the thin gravel path next to the asphalt surface. ‘Humid weather is awesome don’t you know mon.’ Barked the CQ

The downtown end of the trail

We hit the 2.77 mile turnaround point downtown. We turned to go back. Our three-mile time was horrific but under thirty-five minutes. Our four mile time was worse. We ended up at 5.54 miles. My longest run of the year.

Machine-Age expressionist vista

‘I admit, it’s a little oppressive out here, how do you run in that gargantuan, aromatic adult diaper, O’ Botendaddy? Oh the hell with it. Let’s go your penthouse downtown and f&%k wildly in the hot tub.’ Said the CQ.

‘Vanilla cold brew with half and half?’

Peace be the Botendaddy

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Washington, D.C. National Mall Monument Run


The Reflecting Pool

The humidity was staggering.

I was going to run 4 miles.

Not likely.

I had crept stealthily (stealthily crept?) down 9th Street N.W., whatever the f&%k ‘N.W.’ means.

At any rate, I was blissfully alone in the District. I got to the sandy paths next to the Mall and I started to stretch, when I felt a hand on my sleek butt-ock. It was the… LIBRARIAN!

“Thought you could slip into the City without my knowing? I will not be ignored!” (Yee Yee Yee Norman Bates stabbing musc).


D.C. Art shot

The librarian was clearly insane. She wore some kind of tennis skirt. It appeared she was not wearing panties. I could almost see {CENSORED U.S. Code per Public Law 18-316, Act of May 7th, 1919 against pre-verted, communist, subversive, Bolshevik, prurient filth (and bad writing)}

The first mile was horrible. My legs were in great pain so I kind of dogged it.

“You are going to overheat in that massive, tasty, del.ic.io.us adult diaper, Yon Botendaddy. You are running like a crippled shit-covered old goat.”

I ran directly behind her to observe her lithe, supple, firm butt-ocks and catch a glimpse of her over-exposed, sweaty, dripping girlie-schnée.”

I know you are looking at my ass, you pervert.

The second mile, we ran along the reflecting pool. It stank like dead waterfowl. They were draining the water to resolve the duckling-slaughter. Our two mile time was atrocious.

We ran up to the Lincoln Memorial to pay homage to the somber Lincoln, the martyred Caesar (Pronounced Kee-Kar), like in every bad Hollywood movie.

My third mile time was grotesquely bad. I actually stopped at a drinking fountain, which made up for the undesired ‘pause’ of the MapMyRun app.

I staggered back down 9th Street (N.W.) in the wrong direction.

“Oh I see you are heading for my apartment, fatty. I suspected as much. I know you are madly in love with me. So let’s just f%$# and get it over with,”

“Mocha with extra whipped?”

Peace be the Botendaddy


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Extra! Extra! Dateline Pittsburgh: Pens Win Cup! Writer’s Workshop All Night Party at the Bolean Nationality Classroom!

“Let’s go Pens!”

The Professor shouted.

“Party!” Yelled Chief Guyasuta.

“I actually care!” Shouted the no-one cares lady.

And we all ate Beetus and quaffed ale.

We even shared our kegs of ale with the Social Justice Champions, who are all Pens Fans.


Yes that does look like a 🐧… again

To all my readers who love the Pens, Crosby, Malkin, 🌺 Fleury, Kunitz, BONINO BONINO BONINO!!!

“Coffee with Bailey’s served in a Stanley Cup?

Peace be the Botendaddy

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Free Kosby!

We got a new member of the Writer’s Workshop.

“I am Revolutionary Ebony Blacquéz (pronounced Black-Wayz) you white-power, oppressive, literary Mother-f&%kerz! You use literature as a tool of the Capitalist, running dog, fascist pig, power structure to enslave the minds of revolutionary youth! All power to the people! Here is a list of my demands!

Free Bill Kosby!

Free Charles Mannson!

Free Reality Winter!

Free Bernie Maddofff!

Free Kathy Grifffiin!

Free Osawowwow Jones Simpson!

Free Karlos the Chacal!

Is that Macedonian espresso?”

“OK” I said, pouring Blacquéz a tiny cup of the espresso with an organic sugar cube.

“Welcome to the Writers Workshop. I am zer Botendaddy. Why are you dressed like a French mime, complete with beret, suspenders and striped shirt?”

The Trail Marker

The Trail

“Listen Mr. So-called devil Botendaddy! I heard about your oppressive condescending racist jive! I just want to say that you are man-beautiful and that I am madly, passionately, romantically in love with you in an early 19th century tragic-romantic period Poe-era way. Besides, this is my look, very pre-war Français.” He said, winking and licking his lips.

“Oh not you too?” I lamented.

“Listen everybody. I ran today. I ran down the mountain ridge and across the river. First mile 8:30, second mile time 18:48. Then it was just too hot. I ended up running 4.12 miles. Yesterday, I did my 92nd weight workout of the fiscal weight-lifting year. My strength is back, but I’m ready to lift heavy. I’m still down about 77 pounds and just inside BMI normal, like BMI 24.99.”

The New Bridge

The River and Creepy Spy Camera

“Botendaddy, you are a shit-covered, diaper-wearing, intellectually vacant, (*hot*) soulless fraud!” Shouted Blacquéz “(I love you)” He muttered under his breath.

“Your stupid blog is nothing more than a complete rip-off of S.J. Perelman’s feuilletons. It’s like Belushi’s Samurai Delicatessen (NBC) is a complete ripoff of Morgan Freeman’s You want a Banana Split? from season two of Electric Company.”

The No-one Cares Lady stood up.

“Listen, so-called Botendaddy, no-one cares about your stupid literary reviews, no-one cares about your stupid Writer’s Workshop, no-one cares about you running in your filthy, enormous, del.ic.io.us adult diaper (Ah the smell of it!). No one cares about this collection of whores, filthy old sluts, fairys, fruits f4990t5 and 8u11-Dyk35. JUST F&$K ME GODDAMN YOU RIGHT NOW! RIGHT HERE IN FRONT OF EVERYONE! I NEED IT YOU GODDAMMNED FREAK!”

“Cinammon Latte?”

Peace be the Botendaddy


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